Stumbling, Behind
by OpheliacAngel
Summary: He can fool himself into believing that being with her is like being alone, it feels the same but it isn't. Written for Trick or Treat Exchange as a treat for DesertScribe.


**Title:** Stumbling, Behind

 **Author:** OpheliacAngel

 **Characters:** Murphy, Cassandra

 **Genres:** Friendship/Family

 **Rating:** Teen

 **Summary:** He can fool himself into believing that being with her is like being alone, it feels the same but it isn't.

 **A/N:** Written for Trick or Treat Exchange as a treat for DesertScribe. I was planning to write something on Murphy and Cassandra, then I looked at one of your past letters and noticed that you requested specifically those two, so that worked out great. I couldn't help but overachieve and write you another Z Nation fic. Happy Halloween!

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Cassandra's state doesn't worry him so much.

Hell, she's alive. Not lying on that metal table and dying, no voice so wrecked that all she can do is whisper and Murphy has to lean in so close in a way that feels much too real. Cassandra hadn't needed to ask him for anything, there was no way that he was gonna let her die. Not her. Not without doing everything in his power to save her. She was one of the good ones, deserved a better ending than dying in some room, alone.

So he made her more like him, no big deal. He half expected it not to work and it hadn't all the way, but she was still Cassandra: walking, breathing, _living._ Somewhat, anyway.

"Do me a favor and hold onto these." He throws her a pair of boots; she manages to catch them even after stumbling.

Sure, she's a little unsteady on her feet and she hasn't quite talked yet, not since she took on that creepy Merch guy. Just some general grunts and groans thrown in Murphy's direction, not that she looks annoyed or anything. Maybe a little bored. Then there's the issue that she can't quite walk in a straight line; he has tested this theory by the way. Or that there's no proof she even understands whatever the hell he says, but again, he can't remember much of that either after the fact.

So, obviously enough, all the above seem irrelevant given that she found him and is currently trailing after him, both of which are totally progress on both of their parts. And he'll look after her, it's the least he can do. She doesn't need his protection, she'll never have that fear again, but she still needs guidance and companionship and he can provide both and do a damn good job of it. "And this one too." He drapes the leather jacket over her shoulder and upon second thought, plops the fedora on her head. "Girl, you need a hairbrush."

He picks his way through the feminine hygiene section and manages to find a somewhat salvageable hairbrush and a couple of sparkly barrettes, shoving all items into his backpack. Satisfying himself, he takes a final look through the clearance clothes before heading for the exit. Cassandra follows him without a word, Murphy's pick of the litter draped over her.

Murphy slows his pace because hey, Cassandra's still stumbling somewhat and Murphy _does_ have a heart contrary to popular belief. She looks up at him as he falls back beside her, but can't manage to hold his gaze. That's one thing he's noticed about her new state: a lack of concentration. Again, hardly seems worrying considering they're both still _alive._ As if he expects it - however the hell she got that idea he doesn't know, figures it's more of a form of payment for saving her skinny ass than anything else - she holds out her arm to him.

She looks absolutely pitiful and deadly, all rolled into one pretty little package.

A pretty gorgeous package.

He pats her arm. "I know, sweetheart. We'll freshen you up a little as soon as I can find me another bar. This time with better booze." He pulls the hat off her head, brushes it off and puts it on. A guy needs a little protection from the sun, after all. He's definitely not ready to shed another layer of skin anytime soon, and he's convinced being out in this infernal heat is what's speeding up the process.

They gain a couple friends after a while, who flank them and come to a stop when Murphy takes a break, downing a bottle of water. He offers the other half of it to Cassandra and she grabs it, her fingers curled like claws, scrabbling at the plastic as she gulps it down. He hasn't missed the gray tinge to her once tanned skin or that her eyes look positively other freaking worldly. There are flickers of gold in the gray that catch the sunlight, gold that makes Murphy lose his train of thought. She looks beautiful like this, standing and swaying in front of him, torn clothes, fragile but violent too, intense and hungry for something.

Murphy swallows down a comment and pulls out one of the barrettes, pushing her hair back from her face as he clips it. She stands there, frozen, waiting for him to do whatever the hell he wants. All he does is look down at her injured leg and sigh. Bringing her back from the dead didn't exactly fix _that._ He figures she probably doesn't feel pain, not anymore, but that mangled leg is still affecting her ability to walk.

"Why don't we find somewhere to hole up for a little while? Get you off that leg for a few days tops? I know I could use some kickback time." Cassandra grunts quietly, but makes no other sign that she knows what Murphy means. He sighs again at the lack of response. Cassandra was never much of a talker, but he would enjoy hearing her voice from time to time.

Well, nothing for it. He shoves his backpack in the hands of one of their lingering companions. "God, I need a drink," he mumbles under his breath, but still glances behind him to make sure Cassandra is following.

She still is, he doesn't know why he even bothered.

He can fool himself into believing that being with her is like being alone, it feels the same but it isn't. There is guilt and responsibility, neither of which he wants to be carrying around with him. He never did before, so why the hell he has to now is completely beyond him. But he _made_ her into this and he _is_ responsible for her. If Warren and the others ever catch up to them she'll kick his ass first for leaving, then a second time if he doesn't make sure Cassandra is physically and mentally alright. He doesn't know so much about the mentally part, but he can at least not ignore the obvious and try to wrap her leg up a little.

 _She_ _'ll be alright_ , he convinces himself as he walks on, scanning the horizon for three little letters so he can quench his thirst and bury down that pesky well of guilt. As long as he doesn't think about her pale face, her sinking to the ground and telling them she couldn't go on, her lying on that damn table and just waiting to die.

Murphy had to be the last one to see her for it all to work, but he also _wanted_ himself to be the last thing she saw, to be that final connection. He might not have changed much since the whole world went to hell and he got bit and bit again and people around him died to protect his ass, which he never asked for, by the way, but he looked after his friends while he was with them. If he isn't with them, well, then that's just less weight to carry as far as he's concerned.

He wouldn't have let Cassandra die without her knowing that he did care, that he wasn't some stick up his but idiot who just let things happen without having a say in it.

So he had his say. He told the world to fuck off and saved Cassandra, and here she is all thanks to him. One good deed. Probably the first and the last the world will ever see.

He clears his throat. "Keep up, Cass!" It's the only way he has of holding onto her.

 **FIN**


End file.
